


Jim and his Tiger

by redsletter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Smoking, Suicide, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsletter/pseuds/redsletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran's job is to protect Jim Moriarty. The emotional consequences of this are unlike anything either of them suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim and his Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write smut, so if you're here for that, you're going to be very disappointed. Be aware, though, there is drug (tobacco) use, implied sex, and implied suicide... it's meant to be angst, after all.

Sebastian Moran's purpose was to protect Jim Moriarty. Moriarty, the one who acted like he never needed protection, never had a back up plan, never knew what would happen next. Moriarty was chaos and confusion and pain. And Moran was there to protect Moriarty, against the world, but mainly against himself.

And kill for Moriarty. Moran did a lot of that too. After all, it was Moriarty who liked to watch things die, but Moran who always pulled the trigger. It was what he was good at, what Moriarty had trained him to do. And bloodlust was just as much a part of him as the stripes are part of a tiger.

But it was an unspoken rule between the two men: Moran was there to protect. 

***

"You're letting him get too fucking close."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh, but Seb, he's sooo much fun."

"Don't fucking call me 'Seb'." Moran stubbed out his cigarette on their wooden bedside table, leaving a smoldering black burn etched into the wood. "You know what I mean."

"Easy there tiger." Jim rolled over in the sheets, pressing his body against Moran's, burying his cheek into Moran's chest. "You know that I like to play with my food before I kill it."

"Fucking sick, you are." Moran glanced at Jim, who had closed his eyes and was resting against his back, breathing deeply.

"Just do your job and I'll be fine." Jim sighed, not condescending to open his eyes. 

***

Sometimes Moran liked to watch Jim sleep. Curled up with his face pushed into the pillow until it left patterns on his skin, Jim looked like a little kid, one that always accidentally got himself into trouble. But sleeping, you wouldn't know that this kid has caused the death of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people, No, he's just a fucking angel in his sleep. Everybody turns into a peaceful angel when they sleep. Almost everyone, Moran thinks. He doubts even sleep can wash the evil off of him.

***

When are you coming back? -SM

Hello? -SM

Jim? -SM

This isn't funny -SM

IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR FUCKING ASS HERE SOON -SM

Woah there tiger. I'll be there -JM

Where the fuck were you -SM

Getting business done. -JM

*** 

Moran's favorite days were when Jim didn't do anything. In those days, Jim wouldn't really even get dressed, but just put on one of Moran's old army tshirts (which were way too big for him) and run around the apartment doing God-knows-what. He would stalk victims online, or write page after page after page of plans that he never used. And Moran would smoke pack after pack of cigarettes, leaving burn after burn in the coffee table, the bedside table, on the wood floor. Sometimes Jim would pull him back into the bedroom, and he would leave burns in the pure white sheets like he was staining the pure world around them.

And Jim would fall asleep in Moran's arms, breathing steadily like the child he was, the irresponsible, crazy, lunatic child he was. 

And Moran would let him sleep until Jim woke up the next morning, still safe in Moran's arms, even if they were a bit numb for loss of blood.

Those were the best days. They didn't come often, but they were the best.

***

"Why do you think he keeps that Watson around, Seb?" Jim watched Moran put together his sniper in the deserted staircase, preparing for one of Jim's big kills.

"Same reason you keep me around."

"No." Jim tilted his head and regarded Moran for a moment. "No, you have a practical use. You do things for me. That Watson… he's useless."

"Is he? He can look at the body through the eyes of a doctor, I guess."

Jim shook his head. "He can do nothing that Sherlock can't do himself."

Moran finished putting together the sniper and carefully aimed it out the window. "Sentiment."

"Sentiment." Jim sneered. 

Moran pulled the trigger.

***

Moran's least favorite days were when Jim didn't do anything. The days Jim would wake up early and get dressed in his best suits, insisting that Moran stay home while he "Got business done."

Moran would smoke on the balcony and flick cigarette ash onto the heads of people below until his mouth was numb from the tobacco and then he would go searching for Jim.

He would find Jim surrounded by his sluts, men and women, high from sex and blood, but mostly heroine and meth. Moran would pull him out of there, back to the apartment, where Jim would run to the balcony and try to throw himself off of it before Moran dragged him back inside. Jim would punch and kick and scream, but Moran would never raise a hand to defend himself, and then Jim would sleep, going back to his angelic ways, and Moran would forgive him.

He would always forgive Jim.

***

"Don't get that close again."

"What are you talking about tiger? I was safe the whole time." Jim smiled his cheshire cat smile and tried to look innocent.

"You fucking know what I'm talking about." Moran took a long drag from his cig. "You could have died. And I couldn't have done my job from where I was."

"No, I couldn't have died." Jim rolled over, observing Moran. "He wouldn't have set off that bomb. He likes Watson too much."

"How do you fucking know? He doesn't have emotions. He would've killed Watson to kill you."

Jim rolled his eyes. "No, he wouldn't. He likes Watson too much. It's obvious. I might even venture the word love."

Moran didn't look at Jim. "How would you know love when you see it?"

Jim raised his eyebrows. "The tone of his voice when he thought Watson was in danger, the fear in his eyes when he thought Watson would die." Jim gathered the sheets around him, then smashed his face into his pillow. "He would've killed himself, no problem. But kill Watson? Never. He couldn't live without Watson."

***

Moran whispered those words against Jim's skin when he was sleeping, into his hair when he was too high to understand, into his clothes when he wasn't anywhere near him. Moran whispered them to the cigarette burns in the sheets they slept in, in everything of Jim's.

Except never to Jim when Jim could understand. Because he wouldn't, not really.

Jim didn't understand why Moran was so serious in his job, why Moran refused to let Jim get hurt.

For as smart as Jim was, he didn't understand a single thing about Sebastian Moran.

***

Moran quietly put his gun together on the step, positioning it to aim out and down, where the doctor would appear soon. He glanced out the other window, watching the two figures on the roof. They seemed to dance around each other, the one in the long trench coat following the steps of the shorter one in the nice suit.

Jim.

Moran watched them as they talked, as they whispered and planned and danced. 

"This is it, tiger. The grand finale. Oh, Seb, it's gonna be great." The words echoed in Moran's head, filling the empty void that his head always became right before a kill. The human left and the instinct kicked in. 

Never think when making a kill. Just feel, feel the blood and the lust and the rush. Don't think, that was his motto.

He watched the figures circle each other in their elaborate dance.

Then the shorter one fell, the taller one rushing back, almost surprised.

Moran started.

Jim.

His hands trembled as he aimed at the doctor's head, waiting for the detective to make the final jump.

Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim.

No, he's fine. 

Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim.

Moran watched the tall figure fall. The people gathered around him. The doctor moved out of his position.

Moran disassembled the gun and went to get Jim.

***

For how smart Jim is (was), he really should have known to say goodbye.

***  
Jim  
Jim  
Jim  
Jim  
Jim

Moran whispers the words again. He speaks them, he yells them on that roof. He lets the blood (now cold) wash over him, and he whispers those words into the ears of Jim, into his hair and body and blood. 

Then Moran goes to the apartment.

He smokes and smokes and smokes, pack after pack after pack, until the burns litter the floor like stars litter the sky and his mouth is more than numb, and tastes like ash. 

He doesn't cry.

He wraps himself in those burnt blankets. 

He takes a leap, like a tiger or a cat, or even Jim himself, on those worst days.

Not all cats land on their feet.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, so I would really appreciate any feedback! Thanks!


End file.
